"That's fine! Mr. Wallace! You did a good job!" Baron Vitelli Orisard was full of affirmation, clearly pleased with the work of the sheriff.
"These are all the results of all the lords working together, I have only a little bit of credit!" Sir Wallace was happy to be praised, but there was no showing off in his words.
Sir Wallace then accompanied his Excellency the Minister on a tour of the stores of military rations.
In the county of Hampshire, city of Southampton, thirty miles from the city, is the village of Alok, which received its name from the proximity of the river Alok, from which the village of freemen was formed.
Freeholders are also known as public record holders, which means that they own their own fields and have independent personal freedom without any dependency.
As a matter of fact, the preservation of this village is still attributed to the fact that Henry VIII issued some decrees restricting the enclosure of land, which made the nobles and the local gentlemen abstain from the act of enclosure, and eased the act of enclosure a lot.
As a freeman with three acres of land, Pud felt happy, and although the grain from the plantation was not enough to feed his family, he, who possessed a good shooting skill, caught enough animals every day to supplement the household.
Pud couldn't help but be thankful for the circumstances of his birth; the village of Alok where he lived didn't have any noble domains nearby, and the closest one to them, a knight's domain, was more than twenty miles away, and would require a day's worth of travel to reach.
So the forest near his village nominally belonged to His Majesty the King. But how could the King know that his forest would be hunted? Expecting the nobles who stayed in their castles to report it would be better than hoping that a sow would come up a tree!
What's that saying, the sky is the limit? That's it.
The harsh midday sunlight also failed to penetrate the thick poplar leaves, leaving only a sliver of light that could barely burrow through the gaps in the leaves to Pud's face, bringing a hint of warmth.
Pud didn't care about any of that, standing with his legs bent and his eyes fixed straight ahead twenty feet away, a bull elk with his head lowered, alertly munching on the tender leaves on the branches of a tree, his four thin legs posed ready to run at a moment's notice.
And with his entire body draped in folded branches, perfectly concealing himself in the underbrush, Puder carried his bow in one arm and pulled the string with the other, his eyes following the elk, ready to wait for an opportunity.
Perhaps not having seen danger appear for a long time, and not having filled himself with mouthfuls of food, the big elk slowly lowered his head and gorged himself on the delicacies in front of him, but Pud had not yet acted.
While time passed like water, and the male elk's stomach bulged without his realizing it, and his guard was at its lowest level, Pud was grasping at straws to make his move.
"Whoosh--" Pud's right hand suddenly released, the wooden arrow on the bowstring then shot at the buck, which seemed to notice and moved a step to the right, but unfortunately it was already too late, the wooden arrow did not hit its fatal part, but it hit its left hind leg.
Pud ran swiftly out of the bushes and towards the wounded buck. The buck, in spite of his injury, hastened in the direction from which he had come, but wounded as he was, he could not run far, and was pursued by Pud for less than a mile before he fell to the ground, evidently the loss of blood was of serious consequence.
Pud looked at the prone buck, and, without any regard for its supplicating eyes, very decidedly and without a moment's delay ended its life with the dagger he had captured from the battlefield.
As a veteran of five Army tours, Pud's hands were very strong, so the buck died without pain.
With a few branches put together horizontally and vertically in the shape of a tic-tac-toe, and taking a few canes to fasten the buck to them, and using a stout cane for a fiber rope, Pudel made his way back to the house with such a drag.
The villagers along the way had become accustomed to this scene, so Pudel greeted them smoothly and returned to his home.
There was a great deal of admiration for the man who had been in five armies and was the strongest shooter in the village; after all, whose family had not received a few pieces of meat from him?
Pushing open the wooden door of his home, Pud saw his former centurion, now captain of the Yorkshire sheriff's men-Wood Legolas.
"Lord Centurion! What brings you here!" Pudel asked curiously.
"My Pud, the best shooter, I need you!" Wood pretended not to see the buck Pud was carrying in his hand, and greeted it gladly.
"Bar! My Lord Centurion! I've been very busy lately!" Pud had no good or bad feelings for the money-grubbing centurion.
"The Duke of Somerset in London has issued a call to arms, and you're going to war again!"
"You'd better follow me this time! I only want three tiers of the loot you captured this time!" Wood gritted his teeth, but his heart was dripping blood. As the second son of a Sir, he had very few assets of his own, and was preparing to make extra money from the war, and this time he lost a lot.
But this time, if he raked in some more war honors, he would be able to be ordained as a knight, albeit a knight without a fief, but the status would be completely different.
"Okay! I hope you keep your word!" Watching the money-grubbing guy in front of him bleed so profusely, Puder happily agreed.
As with Puddle, a large number of militia were called up, and slowly as a stream converged on York, and soon, by the tenth of August, nearly fifteen thousand men had gathered in York's barracks.
And at this time in Scotland, Edinburgh issued a call to arms.
And the Knight of Gosseur, sent by the Prince Regent, was unfortunate enough to have to travel to the Scottish Highlands, the abode of those barbarians.
The Knight of Gosseur looked out over the endless expanse of upland land, which was not without endless forests as in the lowlands of Edinburgh, nor was it a withering desert, but was covered with soothingly undulating low green grass and moss.
That low, sparse vegetation grows pale and all but unlike the verdure of England's wilderness. The bare rocks and the crisp air are a constant reminder that this is the highlands of the islands.
Even in summer, when the wilderness is covered with a purple flower called broom heather, the earth lacks a sense of vitality. That boundless purple color seems too harsh and stubborn, different from the splendor of the mountain flowers, but a kind of fury that is almost desperate. This is a lonely land, how many years ago was regarded as a barren land, and even the most magnificent and poignant scenery can not replace the barrenness of the land.
Clan MacDonald (also known as Clan Donald, cndonald), is one of the largest and oldest clans in the Scottish Highlands. As early as the century AD, the lords of Clan Donald founded Firaglan Castle on the shores of Loch Firaglan on the island of Isle of Islay (isleofisy). Throughout the centuries, Clan MacDonald was the most powerful tribe in Scotland, ruling the whole of the glen region of western Scotland and its surrounding islands, and was known as the "Lord of the Isles".